Bad Moon Rising
by Muddy Poodle
Summary: A critical look at the fateful events leading up to season one. Nikita/Michael backstory.
1. Bad Moon Rising

**I. BAD MOON RISING**

_I see the bad moon arising, I see trouble on the way  
>I see earthquakes and lightning, I see bad times today<br>There's a bad moon on the rise._

Colliding directly into a full-grown man and collapsing heavily to the ground might be just another typical day for a toddler but for Nikita, it would only be one of the many tender aches and bruises she would nurse the next day.

Heaving a deadweight Michael off the pavement and back onto his feet was as arduous as trying to lift a potato sack with no leverage whatsoever. Lucky for her, there really was no drug like adrenaline.

"Come on," she panted, wrapping an arm around his waist and ignoring Michael's labored gasp of pain at the sudden weight on his injured leg, "we need to go!"

A steady round of gunfire doubled with the acrid smell of metal as the bullets whizzed dangerously close overhead was enough to prove her point, and Nikita mentally cursed herself for not packing enough extra magazine clips.

"Go!" she shouted, giving him another shove. "Go, go, _go!_"

Most of the pedestrians crowding downtown Shanghai knew enough to scramble out of the way as the pair of them barreled their way through the busy streets and for that, she was grateful. But if the sight of her and an ashen and blood-soaked Michael didn't send people running, the next _pop! pop! pop! _of gunfire did the trick magnificently.

People screamed and dropped to the floor in terror at the piercing gunshots, and even Nikita felt the hairs on the nape of her neck rising expectedly as if at any moment the next bullet would find its way through the back of her skull.

Michael suddenly grabbed her arm, stopping her. "Here! Turn here!" he breathed heavily, pointing.

"What, this next street?"

"Yes, the alley!"

Nikita hurried down the isolated side street as fast and best she could, but even several years of Division training hadn't equipped her to make good time while simultaneously dragging a half-drugged and wounded man around with her. It was like hauling around the ultimate stitch in one's side.

As if on cue, Michael tripped and stumbled blindly to the pavement, nearly bringing her down with him again.

"Come on, we're almost there!" she grunted with the effort of tugging him to his feet.

"I can't see," he wheezed feverishly, holding a shaking hand to his face. "I can barely see!"

"I know. Your captors used metachlorozine on you—it's a photoreactive acid. Just shield your eyes from the light!"

Not usually one to frequent the nightclub scene, this was surely one of the first times that she more than welcomed the inconspicuous cover the nauseating strobe lights afforded the two of them as they elbowed their way through the dance floor. As she glanced over her shoulder through the swarm of bodies, she saw four of their assailants burst through the very same back door she and Michael had entered not moments before.

"Come on, this way." She tightened her hold around his waist and steered him toward the women's restroom.

Per usual, the line for the washroom stretched far out the door. When she forced her way past the front of the line, one of the girls cried out angrily, "Hey! There's a line!"

Nikita whirled, gun leveled to the girl's chest. "What was that?"

Even the girls inside the restroom tripped over each other in their panicked scramble to flee the area. Satisfied, she deadbolted the door behind her and whirled around, subsequently almost falling over from shock to see Michael's glowering face almost inches from hers.

"All right, Nikita. At the very least, I deserve answers."

She carefully angled away and hurried to try the windows, disappointed to find they were too small to escape through. "Your mission was compromised," she murmured distractedly. "The Red Circle Triad got a tip that Division was on their tail. Your team was killed, you were captured, and I extracted you."

"You _know_ that's not the kind of answers I meant!"

"You're welcome, by the way, for saving your ass."

"It's been almost three years since you were last seen by Division!"

"Watch the door, please," she said shortly, tossing him her gun as she kneeled to the ground to pry in vain at the lower ventilation shaft.

"You were free! You had gotten out! You were gone_—_what the _hell_ are you doing back here?"

"Can we save the debrief for the flight back?" She proceeded to tug the ragged and blood-soaked sports coat from his shoulders.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Michael, jerking away. "What are you doing?"

"Trust me," said Nikita tersely but he stepped back, hands raised in protest.

"No, I'm not just going to follow you blind. What's your plan?"

"I don't have time to type out an itinerary, so do as I say or you'll die. Take off your shirt."

Michael's fingers seemed to fumble with the buttons on his collared, long-sleeved shirt. "That window's too small to climb out," he called to her.

"I know that. I'm not climbing out." She dropped down from the window sill and approached him swiftly with an inky black smear on her fingers. "Close your eyes."

"What for?" He swore and flinched in pain as she smeared the window grease over his eyelids like heavy black eye shadow. "Damn it, Nikki, that burns!"

"Better than a bullet," she replied grimly, fiddling to remove one of her earrings. "And this part's going to hurt even more."

"No, I don't need that."

"The devil's in the details, sweetheart. Try not to yell."

But Michael did indeed yell as she forced the tiny, silver hoop through his left ear. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, she used the rest of the black window paste to spike his hair unrecognizable, then ripped the sleeves off his white undershirt.

"Is this really unnecessary?" he asked disgruntledly as she wrapped her belt around his neck in the fashion style of a punk-rock musician.

"Listen to me," she hissed in a low voice, taking back her gun and steadying his face gravely between her hands. "The Triad is out there right now looking for us, which means we both need to _strut _out of this club unrecognizable."

"_That's_ your plan?"

"That's the plan."

"That's exactly the kind of plan that'll get us killed!"

"I'm _sorry_," she snarled, narrowing her eyes dangerously. "Maybe I should have left you to die on that Triad interrogation table I found you in!"

"There has to be another way out of here."

"You're not listening to me! I told you: there is no other way out."

"My tracker's activated. Percy will send an extraction team!"

"Trust me," Nikita said quietly, more to herself than to him as she disengaged the safety from her gun. "Percy's not going to send an extraction team for you."

She kicked open the door.

* * *

><p>"<em>I have a lock on Ari Tasarov," Nikita confirmed in her earpiece, peering down at the man from her birds-eye view position at the top of the basketball stadium. <em>

"_Acknowledged. Take the shot."_

_She didn't even bother to disguise her surprise at the familiar voice in her ear. "Percy?" It wasn't exactly standard protocol for the head of Divison himself to run surveillance on a mission. _

"_Take the shot."_

_But as she peered at Ari Tasarov through the telescope of her sniper rifle, she saw him leap excitedly to his feet in response to a maneuver in the sporting arena below._

_She lowered the gun. "I can't."_

"_Repeat?"_

"_I can't take the shot."_

"_Why the hell not? Your mission objective is clear: find Ari Tasarov and take him out!"_

"_His son's with him," replied Nikita quietly, watching Tasarov ruffle the young child's hair affectionately._

"_So be it_. _Proceed as planned."_

_She jammed her finger to her earpiece with slightly more force than necessary. "I'm not about to murder a man in cold blood while he's watching a basketball game with his eight-year-old son!" _

_Percy sounded furious, livid. "Now is not the time to decide to grow a conscience, Nikita. I've given you a direct order. Take the shot. I repeat: _take the shot._"_

_Swearing, Nikita anchored the butt of the rifle against her shoulder once more, deftly keeping Ari Tasarov in the lines of the crosshairs. And yet, she hesitated. _

"_Damn it, Nikita, do it now!"_

_But she couldn't. Not while the man was with his son. Not while she had at least a shred of decency—of humanity—still left in her._

_A splitting blow to the back of her skull surprised her and the sniper rifle misfired erratically in the air. _

_She stumbled to the ground, rifle clattering out of reach. On instinct, she rolled on her side to face her assailant with her gun cocked and ready. Straight wrist, closed elbow, three gunshots in a triangular pattern directly into the man's chest—seminary style. Divison had taught her well._

_Below in the stadium, frightened hordes of people were scrambling over the bleachers in a panic to escape the melee. Nikita ducked to the ground as a heavy rain of gunfire—no doubt from Ari Tasarov's own private security detail—peppered the concrete barrier she cringed behind._

"_Percy," she shouted into her earpiece, "I've been made and Tasarov is on the run. I repeat: I am taking heavy fire and did not complete the shot!"_

"_Acknowledged."_

"_Requesting early extraction from the Kayseri Atatürk stadium in Ankara!"_

"_Denied."_

_She paused, confused. "Repeat?"_

_Percy's voice over the earpiece was cold, shrewd, calculated. "You failed to complete the mission. Request for early extraction denied."_

"_Sir, these are East Russian military forces! I am pinned down and outnumbered; I need an extraction _now_!"_

"_Godspeed, Nikita."_

"_Percy, you son of a bitch," she hissed, "don't you dare hang me out to dry like this! Percy? _Percy_!"_

_But the earpiece was dead._

* * *

><p>"I wouldn't move too fast if I were you. You were shot, remember?"<p>

The voice came from across the room, from a hidden silhouette that Michael's bleary eyes couldn't quite make out at the moment. But there was no mistaking that voice. "Nikita?" he called, straining to prop himself up on the flimsy cot.

First, a pair of long, long legs. Then, a thin and slender torso followed by that silky, raven hair cascading to her elbows as Nikita finally stepped into view. "Glad to see you're awake, Michael."

"Where am I?" he croaked, his voice hoarse.

"Nowhere," answered Nikita, following his gaze around the unfamiliar cabin, "and that's the truth. Just a nice place for a chat. You've been in and out of consciousness for forty-eight hours. Since we got back from Shanghai, I took the liberty of removing the bullet from your hip and leg. You're welcome…again."

One of his hands was bound to the metal bedpost by a steel handcuff secure around his wrist. Michael glanced idly up at the restraint, then down at the simple white bedsheet spread carefully and deliberately over his lap. "I'm naked," he said dully.

"And observant."

"Just like old times then, huh?"

Nikita raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, regaling him with an expression of light amusement as if over a chat about afternoon tea. "Did you just tell a joke?" She laughed softly. "Same old Michael, always so serious. I didn't know you learned to be funny—"

"Cut the crap, Nikki," he spat, struggling against the handcuff. "Why don't you let me go?"

"Do you know how hard it is to have a normal conversation with you?"

"_Why am I here, Nikita?_"

She cocked her head to the side, seemingly considering him. "For medical attention, of course. You were shot. Twice. In addition to losing a lot of blood, you also sustained a few cracked ribs."

"And because you think that if you let me go, I'll tell Percy and Division where you are?"

"No," she smiled. "No, I trust you more than that."

"Then these aren't necessary," suggested Michael hopefully, nodding pointedly at the restraints.

"Mm, I don't trust you _that_ much—"

He tore frustratingly at the cuffs, and he knew by the way she flinched that he had startled her. "Damn it, Nikki, you don't even realize what you've done!"

Finally, a crack in her impenetrable, calm exterior. Nikita's liquid brown eyes narrowed imperceptibly, hardening into pools of black. "And what is it that I've done?"

Even Michael was surprised at the earnestness in his voice as he leaned forward. "You're not supposed to be here; you're supposed to be on a beach in Malibu or in a vacation home off the coast of Greece. You need to get as far away from here as you can! If Percy or Division find out you're still active—"

"I showed up in Shanghai because you lost control of your mission," she maintained coldly, her chin raised defiantly.

"I had a plan!"

"Oh, yeah? And what plan was that? Stick it out with the Triad and hope Percy would send in an extraction team for you? He would have left you to die there, Michael, then disavowed any connection you ever had with Division. That's what Percy does. Believe me, I know."

He wanted to yell, to shake her, _anything_ to make her understand. "You're not listening to me! Now that Division has you back on their radar, they'll—"

"They'll what? I left that agency almost three years ago. That's never even happened before—"

"Exactly," he rasped, flecks of spittle hitting her face in his intensity. "There's never been an agent like you before who's gone off the grid; that poses a problem. Who knows what Percy will do to eliminate that problem?"

But Nikita was shaking her head. "If Percy wanted me contained, he would have done it the second I turned in my key card, not three years after the fact."

"That was _before _you showed up in Shanghai," he implored her, desperate. "Three years ago, we all thought—hoped—you'd left the country, never showing your face again. But now that you've intercepted our tactical mission in Shanghai, you _know _Percy can't turn the other way while Oversight's looking over his shoulder!"

"I was saving your life!"

"And it may have cost you yours!"

Nikita rose to pace the room agitatedly. "You think I don't know the kind of man Percy is? You think I don't know what he's capable of?"

"I think if you don't let me return to Division right now and contain this, something terrible is going to happen to you."

Michael shifted in the bed, careful not to disturb the bandage securing his ribs, but nevertheless attempting once more to free his wrist from the restraint.

But the metallic clinking seemed to jolt her from her reverie. She turned to face him, her expression grave. "I'll need to stitch up the wound and redo your dressing in a few hours," she said quietly. "By tomorrow morning, you can go."

As she passed him on her way from the room, Michael reached for her arm with his free hand. "I don't know how else to convince you to trust me," he whispered, unable to hide the sheer desperation from his voice.

A brief spasm of emotions flickered across her face, too brief for him to decipher. Despite whatever steady resolve she'd maintained up to this point, as Nikita reached to cup his face tenderly in her hand, he was surprised to feel that she was trembling.

"I do trust you," she said softly, the hard contours in her face immediately softening. "That's the problem. Things aren't so simple anymore."

"I already lost you once. You know I can't lose you again."

"You won't."

"Nikita? _Nikita!_"

But she was already gone.

* * *

><p><em>Song credit: Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Bad Moon Rising"<em>  
><em>Scene credit: Alias<em>


	2. The Morning After

**II. THE MORNING AFTER**

_Why'd you sing Hallelujah  
>If it means nothing to you<br>Why'd you sing with me at all?_

_It wasn't the first time that she rolled over in bed only to find the pillow beside her empty and cold. _

_Blinking mildly against the cheery, early morning sunlight, Nikita fought a smile as she watched a half-dressed Michael attempt to creep stealthily from the room in his stocking feet. His formerly crisp, white oxford shirt was now relegated to a disheveled, rumpled wad of clothing that he tucked into the crook of his elbow like a weathered football—an old habit from his high school years, no doubt._

"_You know, for the record?" called Nikita, breaking the silence and relishing Michael's jolt of surprise at the sound of her voice. "You are terrible at the walk of shame."_

_Michael seemed to recover quickly enough. "Good morning," he greeted sheepishly, his lips creasing into an irresistibly bashful smile. He seemed to hover hesitantly in the doorway, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to another._

_Half of her wanted to sigh in exasperation at his maddening uncertainty, but the other half of her found this uncharacteristic shyness nothing short of enchanting. This beginning part of their relationship was the fun part, the parrying stage, but it was also indubitably new for both of them._

_Deciding he needed an extra modicum of encouragement, Nikita tapped her fingers invitingly on the bed next to her, biting back another smile at his shameless eagerness to comply. _

_His lips against hers were warm, soft, and reminiscent of the suggestive and lingering tenderness from the previous night. A bit too enthusiastic, she threw her elbow around his neck, deepening the kiss._

_But Michael broke away. "I should go," he murmured regrettably, calloused fingers entangling themselves in her hair. "This is too dangerous."_

"_I thought you liked risks," she purred lightly, tilting her head alluringly to the side._

"_I also like my body. And as I recall…so do you."_

_She laughed softly in surprised delight, pressing her lips briefly to the insides of his palm. "Oh, Michael. And they say you're always so serious—"_

"_I _am_ serious, Nikita," he frowned unconvincingly._

_But she grinned, reaching to pull his mouth to hers once more. "Yes, I know. Very serious, Michael, always so serious—"_

_This time, he wasn't as careful with her. There was a deeper sense of urgency now in the way that his lips caressed hers and Nikita clung to him. Her hands gripped his strong shoulders, then the sinewy muscles lining his arms, then back up to play with the short-cropped hair brushing the nape of his neck._

"_I should go," he repeated, his breathing rough and haggard. "This isn't safe. We have tracker implants, remember?"_

"_You know, we could probably get Birkhoff to come up with a signal jammer of sorts. Who knows? Maybe even take it out completely someday."_

"_Sure, because _that_ wouldn't arouse suspicion," Michael snorted, but he pressed a reassuring kiss against the corner of her mouth to soften the sarcasm. "Speaking of which...when are you going to tell Birkhoff about us?"_

_That caught her off guard, and she didn't mind showing it. "Birkhoff?" The name rolled questioningly off her tongue. _

"_Come on," he teased, a playful laugh in his voice, "you don't think I know the poor guy's had an unrequited crush on you since your first day of training?"_

_For the second time that morning, she threw back her head in surprised laughter. "I didn't know anybody else noticed that," she admitted unabashedly. _

"_Nikita, I think everybody's noticed."_

"_Mmm, let's hope not," she said, her grin slowly fading._

_Nothing escaped Michael's notice. "What is it?" he smiled, lightly stroking the soft skin on her inner forearm from elbow to wrist._

"_I met someone two weeks ago."_

"_Oh?"_

"_His name's Daniel. Daniel Monroe. He's studying to be an architect." _

_A guttural sound rumbled in the back of Michael's throat, and Nikita took that to signify his surly disapproval. "Are you seeing him?" he asked tersely._

"_I am."_

_It pained her more than she cared to admit when he pulled away abruptly to sit up stiffly in the bed, his back to her. "Michael," she implored him quietly in the silence, "it's not my _life_, it's my cover. Daniel is just a part of that cover. Division even said it wouldn't look believable if…someone like me—" she struggled through the words, "—wasn't in a relationship."_

_This time in the ensuing silence, she was determined to wait him out for a response. She counted quietly in her head, reaching a full twenty-five seconds before Michael finally lurched to face her. _

"_You need to be careful."_

"_I know, I know," she said quickly. "I won't breathe a word to him about Division—"_

"_That's not what I mean. Nikita, it is imperative that you are extremely careful about your relationships with outsiders, and I'm talking crazy vigilant. Emotional attachments are dangerous, and not just for you. Do you understand?"_

"_Michael," she choked out the laugh uncomfortably, "slow down! The guy bought me a latte, not an engagement ring—"_

"_I'm serious," he interrupted pleadingly, imploring her with a rather alarming look of desperation and urgency. "Promise me that you will be careful with this guy. Okay? Please. Take it from someone who's been there firsthand—you don't want any civilians becoming causalities of the job. You don't want the thing you love most in life taken away from you. Trust me."_

_Nikita fell quiet for a long moment, weighing the gravity of his words and the anguished remorse behind it with careful consideration. "All right," she said at last. "You're right. I'll be careful." _

_He softened immediately. "I'm trying to protect you. I don't want to see you hurt. Relationships with outsiders are already dangerous enough as it is."_

_For good measure, Nikita pressed her lips reassuringly against the bare skin at his shoulder. "Relationships with outsiders? What about…relationships within Division?" She rained a trail of feather-light kisses up the side of his neck._

"_Those are dangerous as well," he maintained sternly, but in spite of himself he seemed to angle his body in her direction._

"_And," she murmured against the corner of his lips, coaxing them out of their frown, "what about relationships between a new agent and her former recruiter?"_

"_The most dangerous kind…" He turned to take the kiss in full, cradling her face tenderly between his hands one last time before sliding regretfully off the mattress._

_A sudden crazy, irrational urge to stop him from leaving just then gripped her as she watched him gather his belongings. The urge became so compelling that Nikita abruptly reached to snag his arm. "Wait." She lurched across the bed to snatch something from inside her night table. "This is for you."_

_Michael caught the ratty, cardboard box with ease. He raised his eyebrows in an expression of feigned indifference. "A box. You shouldn't have—"_

_Scowling, she punched him good-naturedly in the stomach. "It's what's inside, wise guy." _

_The lid came off the box easily enough, and Michael stared blankly down at its contents. "It's a key."_

_Not exactly the joyous reaction she'd been hoping for. _

"_It _is_ a key…to my place. I know we need to be cautious," she amended hurriedly, shuffling on her knees to the edge of the bed, "and I know it's a bit soon for all this, but I want you to keep it. Just be careful how you use that," she added with a rather strained and unnatural laugh. "I don't like surprises, remember, so there better not be any nasty ones when I come home."_

_A weak joke._

"_And, you know, this doesn't have to mean anything _big, _you know? I mean, it's just a key. It doesn't have to be on par with, let's say, a cup of coffee."_

_Another paltry attempt at humor. Shut up. Now_.

"_You know what? This was a bad idea. Let's just pretend this never happened—"_

_Michael suddenly cupped the back of her neck and swallowed the hesitation from her lips with a fierce and bruising passion, effectively silencing her. At some point, the key fell noiselessly to the ground, unnoticed by either of them as he wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her gently onto the bed._

* * *

><p>She was in for a rather nasty surprise when she breezed into the safehouse early the next morning.<p>

To even the most rookie of agents, the now empty bed that she had handcuffed Michael to throughout his recovery should have raised immediate concern. The empty handcuffs dangling idly on the bedpost should have raised an even bigger red flag.

As it was, maybe Nikita was so unprepared to find him missing that she didn't think to react quickly enough.

A quick shuffle of footsteps from behind and suddenly, Michael had her slammed against the wall, a fist clenched roughly at her throat.

"Welcome home, Nikki," he rasped, his expression grim. "We need to talk."

"Well, well, well," she panted, straining to free her throat. "I guess it really _is_ like old times. Trying to sneak away in the morning when you think I'm not looking? You always were terrible at the walk of shame—"

Maybe the swift blow to his already fractured ribs was the proverbial cheap shot on her part, but it made him release her all the same.

It was an enormous credit to his skill as a seasoned Division boxing trainer that he still managed to block her next few punches with apparent ease and dexterity. And why not? He'd been _her _teacher, after all. Every block, every swing, every play of footwork—it had all been handed down to her through his teachings.

What she had not quite mastered yet, however, was how to take a punch.

A bit too overzealous with her next swing, he caught her fist effortlessly in his hand and took advantage of her exposed weakness long enough to squeeze in a sharp jab to her kidney. The resulting pain was beyond excruciating—there was nothing more crippling than being punched in the kidneys.

She buckled and he twisted her arm behind her back, collapsing atop her onto the bed. "You never did learn how to take those punches very well," he growled in her ear.

"Michael, you don't know half the pain I can handle," she retorted, wincing despite her stubborn defiance. "What do you want?"

"Like I said, we need to talk."

"I don't know. Pillow talk and cuddling? Those were more your predilections, not mine."

He dug his knee sharper into her lower back, making her cry out. "The more cavalier you are with your life, the more you hurt yourself—"

_Snap. _

Nikita wrenched her trapped arm sideways, effectively dislocating her shoulder and catching him off guard with his sudden loss of leverage. She bucked beneath him, the back of her head smacking into his chin. It was enough to throw him off balance and she elbowed him square in the jaw—elbow on bone, flesh against flesh, pain slamming into pain.

They both tumbled to the ground in an ungraceful heap, but she was the first to recover the upper hand.

"Like _I _said," she gasped, cradling her dislocated shoulder and struggling to her feet with a gun leveled at his chest, "you have no idea how much pain I can take."

"Nikita—"

"_Don't_," she warned him harshly as he began to rise gingerly to his feet.

"You're not going to shoot me—"

"Shut up!"

"There's something you need to know—"

"All this time working with Percy and you're still a bad liar—"

"_I know about your fiancée!"_

"What?"

"I know about your fiancée! I know about Daniel. I know you're recently engaged to be married."

That was enough to stop her cold. She holstered her weapon. "How could you possibly know that?"

"It doesn't matter how I know," he panted. "What matters is that if _I _found out, Division won't be far behind. And you know what they'll do when they find out."

She scrutinized his face, searching for signs of subterfuge. "You're serious."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you: you don't realize what you've done by showing your face! You're a target now. They _will _come for you both, and you cannot be here when they do. You need to go, and you need to go _now._"

"No," she said automatically, taking an involuntary step forward.

"_Why did you have to come back_?" cried Michael, the anguish furrowing his brow. "You were free, you had gotten out! You were gone! Why the hell did you come back? You finally had a life! Damn it, Nikki, I _told _you to be careful about relationships with outsiders—"

An angry snarl ripped its way past her throat as she grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him against the wall. "Don't you dare," she hissed. "Don't you dare blame me for this—_"_

"I warned you not to get emotionally attached!"

"You mean the way you did with me?"

"That was different! I was trying to protect you—I still am! I am trying to protect you!"

"I didn't need protecting!"

"Yes, you did!"

"You just don't see it, do you? Michael, when are you going to realize I can take care of myself? When are you going to realize I don't need you to try and save me?"

"_What I did, I did for us!"_

The raw emotion flooding the pools of green in his eyes infuriated her somehow and she grew incensed, livid. Because he was not allowed to care for her like that anymore. He was not allowed to love her.

"I don't need you…to save me. I don't _want _you to save me. I am not yours to save. You can't protect me anymore. There is no _us. _There never was."

It surprised even her, the chilling tone behind her words. More surprising still was that he should have no reaction to it. His face was smooth, blank, impassive. She almost had to wonder if her words had registered with him at all.

Finally, a response.

"Then let me go," Michael said quietly. "Let me go, or stop me now."

She lifted her head and for one last, fleeting moment their eyes connected—brown into green, dark into light, the reflection of pain slamming into pain. Her pain. _His _pain. Melting into one.

But she released him, he stepped away, and the moment was gone.

A sudden crazy, irresistible urge to stop him from leaving just then seized her. The urge became so compelling, so powerful, that she half reached to snag his arm as he passed her on his way from the room.

But it was too late.

Halfway out the door, he paused. "Goodbye, Nikita."

* * *

><p><em>Song credit: Damien Rice, "Delicate"<em>


	3. Here Comes the Flood

**III. HERE COMES THE FLOOD**

_Lord, here comes the flood  
>We will say goodbye to flesh and blood<br>Drink up, dreamers, you're running dry._

"_Nikita, what the hell! Are you trying to get us killed?" _

"_We need to talk."_

_Michael squinted, blinking the heavy rain from his eyes. "You nearly ran me off the road just so we can talk?"_

_Interpreting her stony silence as a "yes," he turned to enter back into his vehicle._

_A slender arm shot through the dark, stopping him with a hand upon the car door. "We need to talk," she repeated firmly._

"_It's late. We'll talk later. _

_Nikita slammed the door shut. "_Now_," she emphasized gravely, her normal purr rumbling into a growl. _

_He jammed his hands into his pockets, sullen. "This is about the mission, isn't it?" he guessed glumly. _

"_What happened tonight was unacceptable."_

_Michael ground his toe into the mud like a little boy made to receive a scolding. "You wouldn't be saying that if Tariq had been inside the building," he muttered sourly._

"_Whether the man was inside or not doesn't justify what we did and you know it!" _

"_He was supposed to be there!" he said loudly, defensively. "We had independent confirmation that Kasim Tariq was there! This was our one chance to finally get the son of a bitch—he was supposed to be there!" _

"_Michael, I want Tariq dead just as much as you—" _

"Nobody _wants Tariq dead as much as I do—" he snarled.  
><em>

"—_but there is a line we have sworn never to cross, and we're about a mile past that line now!"_

_He slammed his fist onto the hood of his car, making her jump. "You just don't get it, do you? If someone took away the one thing you loved most in life, wouldn't you do everything in your power to bring them to justice?"_

"_What you're looking for isn't justice, Michael, it's revenge!"_

"_They're the same—"_

_Nikita's hand on his elbow whirled him around. "No, they're never the same! Revenge is about you making yourself feel better. Justice is about what's right!"_

"_Killing Kasim is what's right!"_

"_That's Division talking, not you."_

_Michael threw his hands resignedly in the air. "Here we go again—"_

"_I don't have a problem killing bad guys. If it's between them or me, I choose me. But it's not just the bad guys we're killing anymore, is it?"_

"_Nikita—" _

"_Look me in the eye and tell me you don't know that what Division has us doing is wrong!" _

"_What is it you want from me? Percy tasked us to set the charges, so we set the charges! I had my orders!"_

"_That's right, you're Percy's favorite little errand boy now, aren't you?" _

_He whirled around, towering over her. "When you joined Division, you knew the risks! You knew that sometimes we would have to make terrible, life-or-death decisions, but that we would be making them for the good of this country! So if getting our hands dirty is part of the job, so be it! If you're not comfortable with that, I suggest you rethink your career options!"_

"_Well then, congratulations, Michael. In the name of all things Division, we just murdered a man's wife and kids tonight. How's _that _for God and country?"_

_The seconds passed in silence—he didn't have a reply for that one. _

"_Michael, you didn't know…did you? Before we set the charges to the house, did you know that Tariq's family was inside?"_

_Michael stopped mid-pace. "What?"_

"_Did you know—"_

"_You think I intentionally had them killed?"_

"_I think you want to hurt Kasim Tariq just as much as he hurt you."_

"_And you think I'm capable of that?"_

"_I think you're capable of a lot of things as long as you're blinded by your rage."_

"_I'm not blinded by my rage!"_

"_You haven't answered my question."_

"_I don't accept the premise behind it!" _

_A third vehicle screeched off the side of the road and a middle-aged man leaped from the car. "I saw your emergency lights!" he shouted over the pounding of the storm. "Are you two all right?"_

_Incensed at the interruption, Michael withdrew his gun, pointed it at the man, and barked, "Point those eyes somewhere else!"_

_The man recoiled at once, scrambling back inside his vehicle. "Didn't see a thing!" _

_Normally, that might be the sort of stunt he and Nikita would laugh themselves to tears over. Or fight about, depending on the time or day. Clearly, this was neither the time nor day._

_Nikita was quiet, her back turned. "Michael, I can't do this anymore."_

"_Do what?"_

"_This!" She gesture emphatically between them. "I can't do _this _anymore. I can't keep having this same argument with you over and over again!" _

_A sharp intake of breath, then a shaky release. "You're right," he conceded. "It's late. We should call it a night. There's an 8AM debriefing tomorrow, but after that—"_

_A strangled laugh of frustration? "No! Michael, you're not listening. I can't do this anymore. I _won't _do this anymore."_

_And then, a sudden dawn of realization._

_The subtle change in phrasing made all the difference in the world._

"_No," he breathed automatically, taking an involuntary step forward._

"_The day I became an agent, you warned me about the darkness. You warned me the ways it can change people, and I swore to you I would stay this job as long as I never let that darkness reach me."_

"_Nikita, you can't leave Division. No agent's ever walked out before; it's unheard of!"_

"_I'll take my chances," she smiled grimly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes._

"_And us?" he whispered, anguished. "You would walk away from us? Nikki, this thing with Tariq—I need you now more than ever!"_

_She lowered her eyes to the ground._

_He stepped back, unsure of what to feel._

_Shock. _

_Hurt._

_Betrayal. _

_Anger. _

_A plethora of emotions._

_It was slow at first: tearing at the pit of his stomach, then scorching the back of his throat, then spiraling out of his control until the fire spewed from his lips like a poison. _"_I see. You want to leave?" he spat. "All right. I won't stop you. I'll even give you a head start. But tell me this: when you were sleeping with me, were you doing it just to screw me or were you doing it to become an agent?"_

_Nikita appeared stunned, like he'd slapped her in the face, but she quickly recovered. "If that's what you think, then you don't know me at all," she said icily. _

"_But I do!" he taunted before he could stop himself, his hurt feeding his cruelty, making it strong. "I _do _know you, Nikita. I'm the one who found you before Division, remember?"_

_Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't—"_

"_Remember where you were when I found you? On the streets! Selling your body for drug money near that dump you called a home! I'm the one who took you in, Nikita! Brought you to Division! Gave your life back! I gave you everything I had, taught you everything you know _and this is what I get in return?_"_

"_Don't you dare talk to me like that!"_

"_There's no other response for such pathetic behavior!" he roared, mad with rage. "You know, I don't know why all this is such a surprise to me anymore! You're so used to whoring yourself around that it's the only thing you know how to do!"_

_Without warning, her fist strikes out at him with the force of a terrible thunder—_

—_but he is lightning, and light travels faster than sound—_

_He dodges her punch on instinct, but eight years of Division instinct also teaches him to strike back._

_And his punch catches her directly in the face._

_It is in the calm—when the lightning has subsided and the thunder has rolled away—that he even realizes what he's done._

_Michael stumbled forward, horrified and ashamed. "I-I…"_

"_Don't."_

"_Nikita—" _

_But she held up a warning hand and he froze mid-step. She pressed the back of her fingers beneath her eye where a mottled, purplish bruise was already beginning to take form. "That," she bit coldly, "is the last time you'll ever touch me." _

* * *

><p>"Sir!" gasped Michael, stumbling haphazardly into the room. "Sir, we have a problem—" But he stopped short. Every monitor in the dim interior was lit with scowling pictures of Nikita's face.<p>

Percy appeared wholly unsurprised to see him. "Michael," the man greeted with dull inflection. "Welcome back. Your time in captivity seems to have suited you well."

The words snapped him to attention in a most unexpected way. "My time in—? _Sir_, _you know about Nikita?_"

"Of course," drawled Percy with an oily smile. "We've been tracking her the moment she picked you up in Shanghai. Granted, now that she's let you go we've lost her again, but we'll pick up the trail, I assure you. And we owe it all to you, Michael," he added triumphantly. "We could never have found her without you."

Michael had to steady himself with one hand against the wall, consciously aware of an entire room of agents watching his every move. "You knew she would come after me," he breathed aloud in bewildered wonderment. "You _wanted_ her to come for me in Shanghai."

The older man barked a short, barklike laugh. "She's pathetically predictable, I know. After all this time, her feelings for you are still the one thing we can count on."

"This operation was a trap," whispered Michael with horrified, sinking realization. "This whole operation was a test."

"And you passed," added Percy sternly, clapping him on the shoulder like a son. "It's not like I doubted your loyalty, Michael. The only time I ever even questioned it was during your relationship with Nikita. We all know she was sort of a favorite pet to you. But the moment she let you go, you came here straight away and _that_ is what matters."

A strange lump formed in the back of his throat and he had to fight to maintain his composure. "What's going to happen to her?" he asked mournfully.

"She's quick, I'll give her that," acknowledged Percy resentfully. "Our girl sure knows how to cover her tracks. But she'll come to us and when she does, we'll be ready."

"_She _will come to _us?_"

"Oh, yes," smiled Percy grimly. "You see, there's no point chasing after her; that'll never work. She's too smart for that. Instead, we find her pressure points. Each person has their pressure points. You find something personally important to them and…you squeeze."

Michael followed his gaze to the main screen in the center of the room. _Daniel Monroe. "_Nikita's fiancé?" he croaked hoarsely.

"If someone took away the one thing you loved most, wouldn't you do everything you could to come back for revenge?"

He had to wince. That one hit a little too close to home. "She'll know," he pointed out. "Nikita will know he's the first person we come after next, and they'll disappear. They're probably halfway out the country by now."

"Or not." Percy surveyed him with a knowing look, a shrewd look. "Nikita's with a civilian now. Chances are, _he_ won't be ready to leave the country so quick. Not without some time first. Question is, where would they run? If she needed a day to explain things over, where would she go? Where would she feel safe?"

No. At this he drew the line. Absolutely not. "I don't know, sir," lied Michael, careful to keep his face blank.

If Percy caught him at his deception, he didn't show it. "You!" he barked at a security officer by the door. "Get me that recruit. What's his name? Birch? Bricken?"

"Birkhoff, sir. Seymour Birkhoff."

"Bring him now."

A seize of panic stabbed him, and Michael feared he was going to be sick. _Not Birkhoff. Anybody but Birkhoff._

Too late for him to regret his less-than-favorable treatment over his least favorite recruit. Too late for him to regret his jealousy over Birkhoff's unnervingly close friendship with Nikita. Too late for him to regret the many times he'd deliberately held the man back from reaching agent status purely out of spite, thereby making Birkhoff the oldest and longest-running recruit at Division.

And thereby giving Percy all the leverage that he'd ever need against Birkhoff. He might as well have presented Nikita's head on a silver platter for all the damage that he'd done.

The inevitable knock outside the room came sooner than expected. "Somebody asked to see me?" quaked an uncertain voice.

"Yes!" called Percy sharply, gesturing him over. "Just the man we need! Maybe you can help us with our Nikita situation."

At the mention of Nikita's name, Seymour Birkhoff looked hesitantly first to Michael, then to Percy. "Sir?"

"Nikita has become a danger and a threat. It is imperative that we find her before she exposes this organization and jeopardizes everything we've accomplished the past two years."

"What is it you want from me, sir?"

"You can tell me where she's going."

The younger recruit blanched, then quickly recovered. "All due respect…but how the hell would I know? I haven't talked to Nikki—to _Nikita_—since she left Division."

"The way I understand it, you know Nikita better than anyone here. Well," amended Percy with a meaningful, sideways glance, "_almost _better than anyone here—" Michael flinched at the effect that would have on the young recruit, "—not to mention we both know that you were responsible for her travel arrangements the first time she fled Division."

This time, both he _and _Birkhoff flinched. Neither one had been aware of just how much Percy knew.

"So where is she? Where did you send her last time?"

"I—I can't—I d-don't—"

"Listen, son," Percy interrupted, adopting an uncharacteristic fatherly tone. "It's Birkhoff, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"'_Yeah?' _Boy, you're speaking to your superior—"

"I mean, yes, sir."

"Birkhoff, then. You entered Division almost the same time as Nikita."

"Yes, sir."

"Nikita graduated from the training program almost five months ago."

"Yes, sir."

"And yet, you're still a recruit."

"Yes, sir, that's correct."

"Why?"

"Sir?"

"You've trained here longer than anyone. Why haven't you been promoted to an agent by now?"

Birkhoff's eyes darted imperceptibly to Michael, who didn't miss the bitter accusation behind them. "I…never passed the tests…sir."

"Interesting. How many times did you take the tests?"

"…enough," he answered stiffly, resentfully.

Percy laughed unexpectedly. "We ought to start limiting the number of times recruits can retake that test," he chuckled darkly, and Michael forced a strained sort of smile. "So, you really don't remember where you sent Nikita packing last time?"

"No, sir."

"Well, then. Perhaps I can jog your memory. What if I made you an agent right here, right now?"

"Sir?" said Birkhoff questioningly at the same time Michael blurted out, "What?"

Ignoring his outburst, Percy continued, "Because I'm thinking if you were an agent, Mr. Birkhoff, maybe then you could tell me where Nikita is headed."

Birkhoff paled. "I—"

"You _do_ want to be an agent, don't you?"

"Yeah, but—"

"_'Yeah?_'"

"Yes, sir! But—"

"Because I got to tell you, Mr. Birkhoff, I can't allow you to stay in the training program any longer. What message on discipline would that send to the new recruits? No, we would have to fail you from the program, and we cannot tolerate failure within Division. You understand what that means, son?"

"Y—"

"So you have a choice: you can either fail the program and have security section deal with you, or you can finally be an agent."

Birkhoff sputtered. "Is this a joke?"

"Michael, fetch Owen Elliot. Tell him we have a situation we need him to contain."

"No!" rushed Birkhoff quickly. "Wait!"

"Consider this your test. Locate Nikita and you become an agent effective immediately. Fail to do so and I will have Mr. Elliot escort you from the building. Have you met Agent Elliot? "

"No, but—"

"He is a Cleaner. You _are _aware of what Cleaners do, aren't you?"

"Yeah! I mean yes!"

"So look me in the eye, Mr. Birkhoff, and tell me: do you still think this is a joke?"

"No! Sir!"

"Then what's it going to be, son?"

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm sorry."<em>

_Nikita tore her eyes away from the wreckage that was once her apartment, unsurprised to see Michael sitting quietly at the remains of her former dining table. "I don't think I've ever heard you say that before."_

"_I don't think I've ever meant it."_

_She kicked blandly at the broken lamps and overturned bookshelves. "Well, you followed protocol all right," she remarked bitterly. "Even the police will believe the place was looted."_

"_You know that's not what I meant."_

_She brushed a finger instinctively over her swollen cheek, remembering the incident well. "Division send you?" _

"_My official story is when I got to your apartment, I was minutes too late. You and Daniel were already gone. Here."_

_Nikita looked down. "What's this?"_

"_Your plane ticket. I've arranged a flight for Daniel as well." _

"_Anchorage?" she read out loud, peering at the itinerary. _

"_Birkhoff set it up. His cousin has a house out there. No one's using it and no one knows about it, so Division can't trace it to you. Stay there a day or two, figure out your next move. From Anchorage, you can go anywhere. You can disappear, start over, forget any of this ever happened. You'll be safe."_

_She leafed through the rest of the padded envelope. Fake passports, new identification papers, foreign currency—it was all there. "Birkhoff did all this?" she whispered, amazed. _

_Michael snorted. "His alias isn't 'Shadow Walker' for nothing."_

"_He risks too much."_

"_He loves you."_

"_I know."_

"_He's not the only one."_

_Nikita inhaled a sharp intake of breath, looking away. "Michael, this doesn't change anything."_

"_I shouldn't have said those things. Before, I mean. I shouldn't have…done that." He appeared to wince as his eyes flickered guiltily to the purplish bruise swelling beneath her eye. _

"_Well."_

"_Yeah."_

_Carefully avoiding his gaze, she strode across the room and pointedly opened the door. _

_Like a man on his way to the gallows, Michael obediently trudged his way across the broken debris lining her floor and made to exit the apartment._

_As he passed her in the doorway, Nikita suddenly spoke. "You were more than just my teacher, Michael. You were my mentor, my best friend…the love of my life. You could take my breath away with one single glance. But there is one question I need to ask: when Kasim Tariq's family was killed…did you know? Before we set the charges on the house, did you know Tariq's wife and children were still inside?"_

_His expression was impossible to read. "Yes."_

_She slapped him across the face. Hard. Then, a second time. And he did not fight her this time, not even to defend himself._

"_Your wife would be ashamed of you," she whispered before closing the door in his face._

* * *

><p>Too often has she tried the front door only to find it unnervingly unlocked. Too often has she returned to her home only to find it in shambles.<p>

Nikita stumbled into the apartment, dazed. In an all-too-familiar sight, the paintings were ripped from the walls; the television screen lay in pieces; vases were shattered on the ground; furniture was smashed; even the couches had been overturned.

The only difference? It wasn't just _her_ home this time.

"Daniel?" she called frantically, running from room to room. "Daniel? Daniel!"

The sudden blaring of her cellular phone startled her so effectively that she nearly dropped the cursed thing on the floor. "Daniel?" she shouted into the phone before she realized she hadn't even pushed the "send" button yet. "Hello?" she tried again.

"_Nikita?"_

"Daniel!" she cried, nearly weeping from the sweet relief. "Where are you?"

"_My plane touched down at O'Hare a few minutes ago_,_" _sang his familiar voice over the phone. _"You wouldn't believe the storm on the way over! Anyway, my flight got delayed about thirty minutes or so, but I should be home in time for—"_

"No," she interrupted hurriedly, "don't come home! Are there any flights out of O'Hare leaving in the next fifteen minutes?"

"…_there's…a flight to Memphis boarding in eight?"_

"That's perfect," she gasped, gripping the phone with trembling fingers. "Listen, they're already looking for you, so you need to get out of Chicago as fast as you can. It doesn't matter where for now; just anywhere other than here, do you understand?"

A bewildered laugh. _"What? I don't get it; I just got in! Nikki, what's going on? Who's looking for me?"_

"I'll explain everything later, but right now you need to trust me. Can you access an ATM? Do you have cash on you?"

"_Sure, I—"_

"Good. Don't use your cards. We can't leave a trail—"

"_Hey, now," _interrupted Daniel warily, sounding alarmed, "_you're starting to scare me, hon. Tell me what's going on! Am I in danger?"_

"Please, Daniel, just do what I say! Make sure you are on that next flight to Memphis! I'll meet you when I can."

"_Where?"_

Nikita racked her brain. Where could they go? Where could they stay temporarily before leaving the country? Where would they be safe? "Do you remember the place in Alaska?"

"_The lake house in Anchorage?"_

"Yes! Anchorage! I'll meet you there as soon as I can!"

"_Hang on," _he interjected suspiciously, _"I remember that place…are you in some kind of trouble again?"_

"Daniel, I need you to do this for me! I don't want to lose you, too."

"'_Too?' Nikki, what—"_

"Daniel, please, this is important!"

"_Okay, okay, all right. I'll do it. I don't know what's going on, and maybe I don't want to know. But Nikita, listen to me: everything's going to be okay, you hear me? Everything is going to be fine. I'll take care of you, I promise. I would never let anything happen to you."_

* * *

><p><em>Song credit: Peter Gabriel, "Here Comes the Flood"<br>_


	4. And So It Begins

**IV . AND SO IT BEGINS**

_The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want  
>He makes me to lie down in green pastures<br>He leads me beside the still waters._

Every time a Division operation results in civilian causalities, there's always an undercover agent present at the funeral. Not out of some desperate attempt at atonement, of course, but rather to ensure the sanctity of the organization. To ensure that there will be no problems, no further questions asked. Families are never told the real reasons behind why their loved one died. Only that they were in an accident. Or the victim of a drive-by. Or a bystander in the wrong place, wrong time. Never that they had been a pawn, a foot soldier.

An expendable.

At the funeral, there's a protocol each Division agent is required to follow. Strict guidelines on what to say, whose hand to shake, how much emotion to convey. That last one's the most important: never show more emotion than necessary. Always distance yourself from their grief. Because emotional attachments are dangerous. A liability. A weakness easily exploited.

Michael knows this protocol already. He's probably followed it a dozen times by now. But somehow, this time it's different. Perhaps because while he may not have been the one to actually pull the trigger, he knows he's just as much to blame as anyone for the death of Daniel Monroe.

There's a recitation from the Bible now, but even though the psalm is familiar to him it falls on deaf ears. An elderly woman is the first to lay the rose on the coffin. More quickly follow—Daniel Monroe was not a man lacking in love from family or friends. There are tears, to be sure, even a few sobs, but no one wails. No one is paralyzed by grief, because no one doubts that the gates of heaven have already opened to welcome its newest angel.

Last prayers are bestowed. One final call for respect. The service concludes and the guests begin their solemn trek away from the burial site. But Michael is searching. Searching, searching, searching. Because she is here. She has to be here.

And then a peculiar idea occurs to him. It's such a bizarre thought that he waves it aside at first. But then, he has to wonder. And now, he has to find out.

To some degree, it still surprises him when he finds her there, exactly where he somehow knew she would be. And to any other person, this discovery might prove puzzling. Any other person might wonder why Nikita should be crouched in front of these particular grave markers instead of presiding over the one for her fiancé. But Michael does not need to wonder, for he knows these markers well. He has traced the engravings with his fingers, laid fresh flowers at its base, bled his tears into the rocky soil.

It is the grave site for his wife and daughter.

She neither moves nor speaks to acknowledge his presence, but that very act is what assures him that she knows he is there. Michael half-opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, realizing he has not the faintest inclination of what to say. What _does _one say? There's no protocol for situations like this.

"I feel like my friends must have felt whenever they tried to say something," he murmured at last.

"It's all right."

"That's what _I_ used to tell them."

For a moment, it seemed like all he could do was stare mournfully at the two gravestones side by side, one for Elizabeth and one for Haley. Being here again brought back painful memories—terrible memories—of his loss, the grief now only made stronger by Nikita's loss as well. "The only thing that I wanted…besides having them back…was to see them one last time. To hold them." His voice caught in his throat, and he made an involuntary movement to grip her shoulder. "Nikita_, I am_ _so sorry._ I know how you must feel—"

No longer still as stone, Nikita shook him off. "You don't know how I feel," she returned severely, her hostility surprising him.

"Maybe not," he admitted after a brief reconsideration, "but I know the rage that drives you. That impossible anger strangling your grief until the memory of your loved one becomes poison in your veins. I know what it's like to catch yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed just so you'd be spared your pain."

He watched, somber, as she withdrew two red roses from her coat and placed them carefully at the base of each marker—one for his wife and one for his daughter. The gesture was powerful somehow, reverential, and Michael was deeply moved.

Nikita rose to her feet, continuing to regard the tombstones with a quiet intensity. "I want revenge."

But Michael shook his head sadly. "Revenge won't make the pain go away. Trust me. I know."

"I want revenge, Michael," she repeated, stronger this time. "You of all people should understand! Don't you remember what this feels like? To have the thing you love most in life taken away from you?"

Tearing his gaze away from the headstones, he turned to look her directly in the eye. "Yes. I do."

A peculiar expression twisted its way onto her face in response to whatever expression she read on his, but she turned away before he could decipher it.

"What will you do?" he asked finally.

She smiled grimly, the warmth somehow not reaching her eyes. "Somebody has to stop Percy. Somebody has to put an end to this."

A stab of pity—or was it guilt?—hit him in the gut. Even after everything she'd been through, she was still willing to fight back. Still unwilling to admit defeat. "You can't stop him, Nikita," he said quietly._ "_Or Division. No one can."

"I don't have a choice anymore. I escaped. I was the first recruit to get out, but I'm going to make damn sure I'm not the last." Suddenly, she fixed her eyes on him. "What about you, Michael? Do you still have a choice?"

At first, he just stared at her, dumbfounded, not understanding the meaning behind her words. Then, he realized what she was saying and he blanched. She was asking him to join her in the war against Division.

Despite her grief and despair—despite their unspoken agreement that he was indirectly behind every terrible thing that happened to her over the last four years—Nikita was saying she was willing to put those grievances aside and invite him to be her ally. Even though she couldn't so much as look at him without seeing his role in Daniel's murder, she was silently pleading for his help.

And Michael was paralyzed, stricken, at a loss for words. Leaving Division meant one thing, but leaving Division to join Nikita meant another thing entirely. He would be branded a criminal, a fugitive, an enemy of the United States. There wouldn't be a place in the world he could hide where Division wouldn't find him. Could he be willing to risk that? _Would _he be willing to risk that for her?

Whatever expression Nikita read on his face now must have told her all she needed to know because she turned away without another word.

"Nikki, let me explain—"

Without thinking, he made another involuntary movement to touch her arm, but this time she deliberately moved out of reach. It was a simple maneuver—the tiniest of reflexes, really—but that partial rejection pained him far more than he cared to admit. A slap in the face would have been easier to bear. With nothing else to do, he dropped his hands awkwardly by his sides, trying to ignore the strange constriction surrounding his chest.

"Don't go," he whispered to the ground, anguished.

"Why not? There's no place for me now."

"Yes, there is! Nikita—"

She sidestepped him completely, making the rejection whole. And it carved the breath from his lungs. Like a steel knife through his windpipe. Ironically enough, Michael had no doubt her coldness was unintentional. She had no idea of the power she wielded over him. She had no idea of the effect she could have simply by her smile, her easy laughter, her clever humor, her lips—

"Nikita!" This time, he didn't care whether she rejected him or not. A terrible desperation seized him and he half ran, half scrambled after her, catching her by the elbow and whirling her around to face him. "Nikita, listen," he babbled, his hands running desperately along her shoulders and up her neck. "I know you think you don't have anything to live for, but you do! Right here. You have _me_. You have someone to live for. So stay. Stay with me. Stay with me, please_._"

And without waiting for her to respond, he crushed his lips against hers one last time.

He didn't care that they were in plain sight. He didn't care that this wouldn't change anything. All Michael cared about was the way that their mouths fused together in warm, familiar ways. All he cared about was the way that his lips slanted over hers because if she could feel that—if she could feel even a _fragment_ of the desperation behind his embrace—she would know the depths of his remorse, the strength of his love.

But while she did not resist, nor did she kiss him back.

First, a pair of fingers between them silenced their kiss. Then, Nikita slowly pried his fingers one-by-one from her face until the only thing connecting their two souls was the reflection of brown into green, dark into light, pain slamming into pain. But her pain was doomed to be his own because the moment his eyes met hers, he already knew what she was going to say even before the words left her mouth.

"Goodbye, Michael."

* * *

><p><em>Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death<br>I will fear no evil._

When his tentative rap on the door was met with no response, Birkhoff almost debated turning back altogether. But then his stubborn resolve kicked in and he gritted his teeth. _No, he'd already come this far._

Inching the heavy door open with his foot, Birkhoff poked his head boldly around the other side. "You asked to see me, sir?"

Instead of formally acknowledging his presence, Percy merely waved him in. "Take a seat, son," he ordered distractedly, never once looking up.

"That's all right. I'm good standing—"

"_Take a seat._"

"Yes, sir."

At last, Percy leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, seemingly considering him. "Well, Mr. Burke, it appears—"

"Birkhoff," he corrected quickly, swiping self-consciously at the moisture in his nose.

"Say again?"

"My name's Birkhoff, sir. Seymour Birkhoff."

The older man remained shrewd, calculated. "I see. Birkhoff, then. It seems you deserve some credit, as well as my gratitude. Your intel on Nikita has proved most invaluable. Thanks to you, you'll be pleased to learn that she is no longer a problem."

On the contrary, Birkhoff was far from pleased. In fact, he felt sick to his stomach. "So she's—is she—I mean, uh—"

"Dead?"

He flinched. "Yes, that."

"No, I'm afraid Nikita is still very much alive. But she no longer remains an imminent threat to this organization. We have delivered her a warning that I am told she has received. As long as she maintains a low profile, I see no reason why we should not spare her life. As for you," Percy continued, "you've done this country a great service, young man. You should be very proud of yourself. Now I believe all there is left to discuss is your status within this agency."

Birkhoff couldn't help sitting up a little straighter. "Yes, sir. I'd like to be an agent, sir."

"That seems like a reasonable enough request," said Percy offhandedly. "You helped us track down a dangerous criminal. I'm generous enough to agree that deserves a little something in return. What do you think, Michael?" he added lazily, looking pointedly over his shoulder. "Do you see any reason why Mr. Burke here doesn't deserve a shot at becoming an agent?"

Rather than correct Percy again on his name, Birkhoff twisted sharply in his chair, unsure of how long Michael had been standing there against the far wall silently observing their exchange. Birkhoff raised his eyebrows questioningly, but his former trainer didn't even look at him. "No," said Michael flatly. "I do not."

"Then it's settled," boomed the older man with firm finality. "Congratulations, son: you've just passed the recruit exam."

Even Birkhoff couldn't suppress his grin. "Thanks," he breathed eagerly. "Wow," he added with a stunned sort of laugh, "so I'm really an agent now, huh?"

"Not quite."

This brought him up short in a most unexpected way. "What?"

"Mr. Burke, you are young and you are eager. But one thing you are not—and this is something only time can provide, really—is a killer."

How does one even respond to something like that? "Uh…thank you?" Birkhoff tried, perplexed and not without an edge of resentment.

"You don't have enough fight in you, son. You lack what I call _the killer instinct_ required of our field agents. Now," Percy continued before he could open his mouth to protest, "this doesn't mean I have no use for you. On the contrary, I think you would excel admirably in our information technology department."

Try as he might to quell it, Birkhoff could feel the surly indignation rising in the back of his throat. "I.T?" he repeated, disgusted. "You're sending me to talk to a bunch of computers?"

"You'll be part of an elite task force, working on a highly classified project headed by Michael himself."

Talking to computers _and _working for Michael? What bizarre sort of punishment was this? "What kind of project are we talking about?"

He nearly jumped when Michael's gravelly voice rumbled unexpectedly from behind him: "Locating Nikita."

Slowly, Birkhoff looked from Percy to Michael, then back to Percy. "I thought she was no longer a problem," he said sharply. "You said that—"

"I said that as long as Nikita keeps a low profile, she isn't a threat," interjected Percy with a cold drawl. "But let's be honest: Nikita's not exactly the type to keep a low profile, is she?"

Just as he was about to object, he suddenly remembered what Percy had said about him lacking a killer instinct. So instead, he clenched his teeth. "True enough," he managed stiffly in a low voice, clutching the armrests on either side of him with white fingers. "Nikita must be stopped."

Judging by the pointed way he glanced at the clock, Percy's interest in the conversation had finally began to wane. "I'm glad we're on the same page," he said dismissively, sounding anything but enthusiastic. "Michael will see you out and get you started in your new department. Until she is brought back into this office, finding Nikita is your main objective and in a few years, we'll see whether or not you have enough fight in you to become a field agent."

Based off the older man's stern finality, Birkhoff gathered that was his cue to leave. Mind reeling, he shuffled disgruntledly to his feet and followed Michael wordlessly from the room, tugging the door closed behind him with slightly more force than necessary.

As the door swung shut, he heard Percy call out idly, "Congratulations again on your promotion, Mr. Burke."

And with that last snide comment, Birkhoff's flimsy hold on his self-control tore away with a snap. Ignoring Michael's warning look, he turned and kicked the door open again with all his might. "_My name is Birkhoff!" _he snarled as the door smacked against the wall with a terrible bang.

For the first time, Percy allowed himself an oddly satisfied, oily sort of smile. "Now _that's _more like it," he said softly.

* * *

><p><em>I will fear no evil; for You are with me<br>Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me._

"Can I get you anything else, love?"

Nikita, who'd been absentmindedly fingering the white-gold band of her engagement ring, looked up to see the bartender staring directly at her. She held up her empty glass tumbler. "How about another refill?" But even though the subsequent two inches of liquor went down even faster than the previous ones, it still wasn't enough.

Without asking, the bartender slid her yet another glass before leaning his elbows on the counter, surveying her with knowing eyes. "You look like a good person aiming to do a bad thing," the man said sadly, as if he knew the type well.

She paused, filtering the man's Irish accent through her brain. "I guess you could say that."

The man waited patiently. "You want to chat about it?"

"What's there to say?" she snorted, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. "There's something I have to do, and it's not going to be easy."

"Are you at it alone?"

As innocent as it was, the question hit a little too close to home. Nikita fought back a wince. "Not by choice, but yes."

"Ah," sighed the bartender, attempting to encourage her with a gentle half-smile, "I don't know about that one, love. Everybody has a choice. You can either choose to be alone or you can choose to let people in. Simple as that, you know."

If only her situation really was as simple as that. "Except I could never ask someone to take that risk with me. I'm bad news. Wherever I go, people get hurt. Lives get destroyed. But I _will _stop the people responsible," she added suddenly, stronger now. "I'm going to take them apart piece by piece. I'm going to protect the innocents they target, and I am going to make them pay."

After a long seconds' pause, Nikita glanced up at the bartender to see if she'd finally scared him off. On the contrary, he continued to survey her with a sad and knowing look. "You know what they say about people who go looking for blood?" he asked.

"What?"

"They find it."

Nikita couldn't think of anything to say to that, so she settled for draining the last of her drink. She set it down on the counter again, but this time the bartender did not move to refill it.

"This…_thing…_that you're aiming to do," began the man abruptly. "Is it really as dangerous as you wager?"

She nodded.

"Then you want my advice, love? Don't go at it alone. Don't let whatever happened to you in the past keep you from moving forward, no matter how dangerous it is. Find someone you can trust. Find someone who believes in what you believe and wants what you want. It's a saying in America, innit? _Two heads are better than one_."

For what seemed like the first time in months, Nikita felt a rare smile creep onto her face. She rose to her feet. "What do I owe you?" she asked, gathering her coat.

The bartender dismissed her with a wave. "It's on me, love."

Nikita hesitated, wanting to repay the man but not knowing how. Then, as if in slow motion, she began to remove the ring from her left hand.

"What are you doing?" the man asked immediately.

Taking his hand in hers, she pressed the ring into the center of his palm before curling his fingers closed around it. "Keep it," she said firmly. "Sell it. Give it to someone you care about."

The man's eyes widened considerably as he took in the 18k ring. "Is this your wedding ring?"

"Engagement."

"I can't take this from you."

"It doesn't matter anymore."

One look at her face and Nikita knew that the bartender understood. "When did it happen?" he asked sadly.

"One year ago today," she answered softly, remembering.

Remembering the jubilation she felt when Daniel asked her to marry him and remembering his elation when she said yes. Remembering the screams that ripped their way past her throat when she found him facedown in that lake. Remembering her vow that she would never let anything like that happen again. But despite those memories, deep down she knew that it was time to let go.

And in that moment, she knew what she had to do.

The man's kindly voice jolted her from her reverie, and she reverted her attention back to him. "You're sure that you don't want it anymore?"

Taking a deep breath, Nikita nodded her final assent. "I'm sure that I don't need it anymore."

* * *

><p><em>You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.<em>

It wasn't until he noticed Birkhoff waving and flailing his arms in his peripheral vision that Michael realized the former recruit had been trying to garner his attention for some time now. He was tempted to ignore him—better yet, pretend that the bullseye targets and paper human silhouettes _were _him—but he ultimately decided against it. There was only one reason why Birkhoff would dare interrupt his session at the firing range…

Irritated, Michael lowered his weapon and peeled the protective headphones off one ear. Sure enough, Birkhoff confirmed what he already suspected: "Amanda's looking for you. She wants to see you in her office straight away."

"I'll be right there," he replied curtly. But the seconds passed in silence and Birkhoff had not moved an iota. "Let me guess: she asked you to hold my hand all the way to the principal's office?"

"Doctor's orders."

He ripped off his protective goggles and flung his earphones to the side. Part of him knew it was these same exact outbursts of anger that landed him with these degrading weekly psych evaluations in the first place, but the other part of him knew that this rage was somehow justified.

He was taking long, deliberate strides now, and Birkhoff had to scamper to keep up. "So, how're you doing, man?" he panted as they barreled through an endless maze of paper-white hallways.

"Swell," returned Michael sarcastically, quickening his pace.

"Yeah? I heard you're not sleeping much these days, and we can all see you're definitely not showering. Not doing much of anything, really, except slave away after hours."

"It's called _work_, Birkhoff," he snapped. "If you took your head out of your ass and tried it once in a while, you might have a better shot at making field agent."

It was the proverbial low blow on his part, but Birkhoff didn't seem to mind. "Aw, come on," he snorted, "all that stuff is _yesterday's_ Twitter feed, dude! I'm actually starting to like where I work now—"

"'_Dude'? _Really?"

"—even if it does mean working for a crackpot dingleberry like you every day. What's with the lumberjack look, man? You ever hear of a razor? Or a bar of soap, for that matter?"

"I've been busy," he snarled.

"I know, I know, working around the clock to find Nikita."

Michael's very insides seized at the name. He had to physically restrain himself from covering his ears with his hands.

"I gotta say, you have a weird and creepy emotional attachment to things from the past, or to things that have passed on. It's like an obsession with you, bro! I mean, it's been a year already! Despite our top secret this-message-will-self-destruct-in-five-seconds assignment from Percy, even _you_ gotta know it's time to move on."

What little vestiges of self-control he had left was fast ebbing away—

"It's okay to miss her," Birkhoff continued to ramble carelessly, unaware of his imminent danger. "I miss her, too. Nikki was one in a million, a freakin' force of nature. Like a one-woman Michael Bane movie, only with good acting—"

The next sound in the empty hallway was the liquid gurgling of Birkhoff gasping for breath as Michael shoved him against the wall, a fist clenched tightly at his throat.

"What the hell, man?" the former recruit yelped, his next words cut off as Michael shoved him even harder.

"Not another word," he rasped. "You hear me? _Not another word._"

The laughter faded instantly from Birkhoff's face, replaced by a wholly unexpected panged expression that Michael was stunned to find mirrored his own. "I loved her too, all right?" he said quietly, uncharacteristically serious. "I miss her just as much as you—"

"Seymour, if you _ever_ mention Nikita to me again I will snap your larynx like a twig."

"I was just—"

"I'm serious."

For a fleeting moment, Birkhoff seemed on the verge of saying something else, but he apparently thought better of it. He nodded once. "Sure, man. Whatever you say."

Michael shoved him one last time before releasing him and walking away.

* * *

><p><em>Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me<br>All the days of my life._

When the late-model luxury vehicle screeched to the curb, Alexandra Udinov didn't hesitate. Smoothing the wrinkles from her faux leather skirt with its matching bodice, she sauntered over to the driver side window and rapped a knuckle sharply on the spotless, one-way glass.

"Nice wheels," she purred, pasting an irresistibly alluring smile on her face as the window slowly lowered. But then she recoiled, taken aback. "Sorry, lady, but ladies aren't really my type—"

Before Alex could turn away, a woman's hand snaked out from the dim interior of the vehicle and latched onto her wrist, the grip surprisingly strong. "Why don't you come take a ride with me and we'll talk?" came the clear female voice, more statement than question.

This time, Alex did hesitate, chancing a sideways glance first at the other girls hustled provocatively at the street corner, then at her dealer greedily enjoying the entertainment as he stepped into a neighboring gentlemen's club. Deciding nothing could be worse than further enduring either of those scenarios, she crossed over the front of the car and snaked defiantly into the passenger's seat.

Nervous, she snuck a tentative peek sideways at her female companion. The woman was older than her—albeit not by too many years—with sleek, raven hair hugging a slender waist. Her face was strong, fierce, angular, lined with the sort of creases that read of things far more severe than age.

Alex swallowed hard. _Well. This would be a first. _

"So," she spoke up boldly once she'd racked up the courage to do so, "why are you cruising for company?"

"I'm not 'cruising' for company, actually. I was looking for you."

She scoffed at the line. "Yeah, okay. Why do you care? You don't even know me."

"I'm just somebody trying to help you fix your life, Alexandra."

Alex jerked, unintentionally shrinking against the side of the door. "How do you know that name?" she demanded suspiciously.

Ignoring this, the woman continued, "The good news is you're young and you're smart and you're strong. The bad news is you're clumsy and obvious. How long has it been since your last hit?"

"Lady, why are you talking with me?" laughed Alex derisively, deliberately rolling her eyes, but the quiver in her voice gave her away.

"Because you need my help and I need yours. Because somebody once told me to never let whatever happened to you in the past keep you from moving forward, no matter how difficult it is."

A cold chill began to creep up her spine. "You don't know what you're talking about," she maintained fiercely.

"I know what I'm talking about, Alex," returned the woman in a quiet voice, never once taking her eyes off the road, "because I used to do it for the same reasons that you do. It never mattered who was lying next to me because at the end of the night, the real battle was with myself. With the drugs. The booze. The self-deprecation. Trust me, I know what it feels like to be trapped in a place you think there's no escape from."

"So, what, you drop me off at a rehabilitation center now? Let the cops deal with me?"

"I don't want to tell you what to do. I just want to see you do something with your life that you can actually be proud of. I can train you, teach you everything I know. Teach you how to fight, how to overcome your fears, your addictions, all that hate in your heart. I can teach you how to get your life back together. I can get you off the streets."

For a few minutes, Alex just stared out the window, not really seeing. Instead, she caught glimpses of her haggard appearance in the blurry reflection: the dark circles beneath her eyes, the downward crease of her mouth, the state of her unkempt hair. "How do I know I can trust you?" she blurted out abruptly, breaking the silence with her nervous hostility. "I don't even know your name!"

"My name is Nikita."

"Nikita," she repeated defiantly, running the unfamiliar name over her tongue. "Why would you go through all this trouble for someone like me?"

"Because long ago, somebody I loved once did the same for me."

* * *

><p><em>Love is patient, love is kind<br>It always protects…always hopes, always perseveres. _

"Let's talk about you, now. How're you feeling?"

Michael shifted restlessly in the chair, his dark eyes darting everywhere around the room except at Amanda. "Swell," he repeated stiffly, but unlike with Birkhoff he was careful to eliminate the sarcasm from his tone.

The only sound in the room came from the soft scratching of lead against paper as Amanda made an audible check somewhere on her clipboard. "And you're sleeping at night?" she continued, peering at him over the rim of her formidable glasses. "Practicing…better hygiene?"

It didn't pass his notice the way her eyes flickered disapprovingly to his long locks of hair parted greasily down the middle, nor to the five days' growth of stubby facial hair. "Yes," he lied finally.

Another soft _check! _on the clipboard. "Tell me about your mood swings."

Michael immediately thought of his heated encounter with Birkhoff just minutes before, but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind lest Amanda read it with her unnerving intuition. "They're getting better."

He waited for her to make the small check on her clipboard again, but the pencil in her thin hand remained immobile. "Michael, the drugs we gave you a few months ago to speed your recovery were top-of-the-line medication sanctioned only to Division for very rare occasions. They've been known to advance the physical and mental healing process by a considerable degree, but they may also cause irrational cognitive behavior, impaired judgment and, in some cases, violent tendencies."

He couldn't help but clench his fists a little tighter. "Nope. I feel fine."

"Because if you're still experiencing any of these symptoms, we should run more tests."

He scowled. "I'm not a lab rat. I feel fine."

"_Do _you?"

"Yes."

"No lapses in judgment? No sudden outbursts of anger?"

"No, but I _am _starting to feel one coming on right about now."

"Michael, despite what you may think, this is not a power play between you and me," said Amanda severely, her keen observation not missing a thing. "It's simply not worth risking possible psychosis just so you can parachute out of a Learjet or log extra hours at the office."

"This isn't about returning sooner to work," countered Michael firmly. "I feel fine. I don't need to be on probation anymore."

"So your motivation for this has nothing to do with Nikita?"

There it was again, that gut-wrenching seizure clawing at his insides at the mention of her name. He inhaled sharply. "No."

Amanda cocked her head to the side. "No? I remember she was a fairly powerful motivating factor for you in the past."

"Nikita means nothing to me now."

"If you're feeling sorry for her or if you still have feelings for her—"

"I don't."

"I need to know you believe that before I can reinstate you to active field duty."

The senior-level Division operative was scrutinizing his every move, so Michael raised his head and looked Amanda directly in the eye. "I know now why Nikita has to die. I know why she must be located. It hasn't weakened my belief as to why I'm here, _or_ my commitment to this organization. It's made it stronger."

"And when you find Nikita? What then?"

"Then I will kill her myself."

* * *

><p><em>And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love<br>But the greatest of these is love._

The earth is large. Large enough that you think you can hide from anything. From fate. From God. If only you found a place far enough away. So you run. To the edge of the earth. Where all is safe again, quiet and warm. The solace of salt air. The peace of danger left behind. The luxury of grief. And maybe for a moment…you believe you have escaped.

But there is no escape. Not truly.

Six years ago, she was taken from prison and forced to become an assassin for a secret unit of the government, a black ops unit now gone rogue. They destroyed her identity, and then they destroyed the man she loved. Three years ago she escaped, and now the man that trained her—her mentor, her best friend, the former love of her life—is hunting her.

Division's power and influence continues to grow. No one is outside their reach, and they will not hesitate to annihilate any person or government who stands in their way. But she _will _stop them. She _will _make them pay, because what Division doesn't know is that she will soon have a partner on the inside: Alex. Together, they will take Division apart piece by piece.

"You're coming with me?"

Nikita turned, seeing the crestfallen disappointment on Alex's face. "Yes," she returned quietly.

The younger woman kicked blandly at the ground. "After all this time—after all this training—you still don't believe I'm ready?"

"You're not ready to be a killer, no."

"I can fight," Alex began boldly, but Nikita gently shook her head.

"I'm not talking about self-defense. I'm talking about premeditated murder and it is _not_ the same, trust me. It takes away a piece of you that you can never get back." Nikita crossed the room and gripped the young girl's shoulders. "But you _are_ ready."

Alex smiled hopefully. "I am?"

"I've taught you everything you need to know. You're smart. Clever. Talented. You'll be a far better teacher than me some day. Together, we're going to take Division apart one mission at a time."

And this time, Alex's smile mirrored her own.

A storm was coming. An impossible battle, a war that perhaps they could not win. But for the first time in years, hope began to seep through her veins. Fueling her courage. Making her strong. Because for the first time in years, she decided to stop running. For the first time in years, she finally had a fighting chance.

Nikita selected a pair of cartoon masks and held them up teasingly for Alex to see. "All right. Who do you want to be: the piggy or the bunny?"

**THE END**

* * *

><p><em>Bible verses: Psalm 23, 1 Corinthians 13<br>Various credits: Alias, The Interpreter, Batman Begins, Daredevil, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, Smallville, Heroes, Nikita_

_**Author's note: **__This story was such an unspeakable joy to write. My foremost hope is that you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved sharing it. I have yet to even start the second season of "Nikita" but if I do, we shall see if I contribute more to this category some day. Thank you again for your time, patience, & reviews, and God bless. _


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